


Trophy

by GrilledBeer



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood and Injury, Gen, One Shot, Set During Desolation of Smaug, Slight Canon-Divergence, gapfiller, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrilledBeer/pseuds/GrilledBeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the capture by the elves of Mirkwood, Thorin had his sword Orcrist taken by an arrogant elf-prince. Always attempting to escape and to claim his sword back, Thorin finally had a chance when a spider attacked. In the end, he came to discover another side of the elf that he had not expected…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trophy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters mentioned belong to J. R. R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson.
> 
> A/N: I have always wanted to write a fan fiction. Plenty of thanks go to my Beta and friend Ariya. Any comments would be appreciated, no matter if you like the story or not!

‘So you plan to keep it?’

From his place in the file, marching towards the Elvenking’s halls, Thorin Oakenshield could hear the muted conversation drifted down the silence of the trees. The speaker was a she-elf — the red-headed who seemed to be the second-in-command.

They were ambushed by a pack of spiders after they had entered the cursed forest, and were consequently saved and captured by its cursed inhabitants. As the label ‘Mirkwood’ warranted, the forest was indeed dark and forbidding. How long it had been — days, weeks, months — none of them could tell; not even Thorin himself, who kept an ever watchful eye on the company. And now one of them was nowhere to be seen. Thorin could only hope that their burglar fared better than they.

Thorin swore under his breath. The elves had not even bothered to tie them up, appearing confident that the dwarves would not be able escape. They were made to walk in a single file, flanked by guards. The elves seemed to be right, to Thorin’s greatest dismay, for even if they could break free, there would be nowhere to run to, and the dwarves would be found and recaptured within a heart beat. This ill forest was _their_ realm, after all.

Still, Thorin wanted to attempt escape. It pricked his pride to simply give over control to these pretentious creatures, especially to ones whose king was a betrayer of trust.

‘I caught them. I keep whatever I want as a trophy’

Thorin could not help but turned his head to the rear of the march, as inconspicuously as he dared. The elf who answered quietly, but with a hint of stubbornness, was the one who seemed to be in charge. It was the elf who took Orcrist from Thorin. Other confiscated things he simply dismissed and gave to his warriors to carry at the head of the file.

Said sword now hung at the waist of the elf.

Thorin eyed it angrily. The elf called him a thief and liar. If not for the numerous arrows pointed at them, he would have put up a decent fight and claimed his belongings back — after taking down the elf, of course.

Thorin's eyes travelled up the elf. While most of the warriors had reddish hair, as was common among Silvan elves, the hair on this one’s head was pale gold. The armor of iron leaves that blended in with the forest hid an archer’s lithe body: strong shoulders, slim waist, gracefully long limbs. His eyes were piercing blue, and Thorin felt as if he had looked into eyes like those before, though he could not recall where.

The elf’s expression, however, was the very picture of arrogance. His lips were drawn into a thin line. Silverly, was the only description that seemed to fit him. The elf, like others of his kind, emitted a glow against the twilight, but to Thorin, he shone softly like a precious gem.

That was not all, for Thorin could sense something else: this elf appeared to set himself apart from others. He walked at the end of the file to watch over his warriors, displaying only strength, not showing any of his inner thoughts. Except, however, to the she-elf, whose presence he seemed to little more than tolerate.

‘But the sword belongs to the dwarf!’ The she-elf continued with a look of disapproval, and Thorin realized that they were, in fact, talking about his sword.

‘I will repeat it again, Tauriel: never believe a word that comes from the mouth of a dwarf. There is no way that one can come into possession of a Gondolin blade; not rightfully, at least.’ With that, he looked to Thorin, cold blue eyes shining like daggers, as if he had known that they had been eavesdropped all along. Thorin sneered at him and turned back to the front of the line. The other dwarves seemed to be preoccupied with keeping to the file, and the guards only occasionally cast a wary glance his way.

‘You sound like your father,’ the she-elf looked exasperated to be told off, ‘I suppose you plan to turn it in to him, then.’

Then the thought stuck Thorin. The haughtiness should have given the elf away, and Thorin should have recognized him from the start! The elf was none other than the Elvenking’s son and heir. No wonder why Thorin felt like he had seen those eyes before, for he indeed had: in his grandfather’s halls back in the days when Erebor had still stood. Those were the eyes of the traitor Thranduil.

Thorin then felt anger and hatred rose in him, so hotly that he almost choked. Both sire and son were thieves and liars, and to think that the elf had reversely called him by those names! With the strength of will that he didn’t have, Thorin restrained himself from whipping around and charging at the elf.

‘I am sure he would not mind my keeping a thing or two from a hunt’

Thorin, once again, peered around to the back to observe them, though he could feel his anger simmering, making his fingers itch.

At that, the she-elf looked astonished. ‘What do you intend to do? Surely you do not mean to use it? With respect, _my lord Legolas_ , but your skill with the sword…’ She stressed his status, that her phrase sounded almost like a mockery, but not quite. With a glare from the son of Thranduil, she kept her mouth shut. To Thorin, they seemed close; not the way a lord and a warrior were close, and not lovers either, but rather like siblings. She quietly took her leave, and went back to her place at the head of the file.

As she passed Thorin, she said evenly without looking at him. ‘One would expect more from a dwarf lord than to listen in on matters of others.’

Thorin, though unexpected, was quick to retort. ‘So says one who just concerned herself with other’s business.’

The she-elf growled, her hands balled into fists at her side with suppressed anger. ‘I just reasoned with him to return the sword to _you_.’

Thorin spat at her feet and looked at her with disdain. ‘I don’t remember asking for a favor. And if you are of the opinion that I will, _elf_ , then you are sorely mistaken.’ He said the word as if it was something disgusting. It didn’t matter that she tried to return the blade to him: an elf was an elf, and he didn’t need charity from one. The she-elf, in turn, looked taken aback, as if she had not believed her ears.

Thorin shot a look of superiority at the elven prince at the back of the line one last time. Then he noticed that the elf was not looking at them, his slight frame suddenly tensed and the golden head snapped up to the shadow of the trees. The alerted elf, still some way behind Thorin and the others, urgently called something in elvish. The guards responded immediately, scattering in multiple directions, while only a couple of guards remained behind to watch the prisoners. The elf prince crouched down, preparing to jump onto the branch of a tree.

_Thud._

A shadow fell down between Thorin and the elf, blocking him from view. Thorin’s instinct made him back away just in time to avoid being crushed under the heavy mass of black and blue. It was a giant spider, the size of a horse. Its velvety black hide glowed dully, its numerous eyes fixed on its preys of elves and dwarves. The guards lunged at the beast, putting arrows into it and slashing at it with swords.

Thorin, sensing his chance of escape, dashed off into the nearby tall bushes without hesitation. He ran, thinking that he would go seek help or come back by himself to get his companions afterwards. But deep down, he knew that he could not stand being at the Elvenking’s mercy any longer, not with the traitor’s own heir in charge of his captivity. He would find a way to free the dwarves later, but that did not include himself being captured too. He knew that he had never been selfless. A king could not be completely selfless to rule a kingdom, after all.

None of the elves or dwarves noticed that he was gone, as all were busy putting down the spider. In fact, all except one.

As he ran through the eerie undergrowth and bushes, he could sense a quick shadow in the canopy moving above him, trailing him. He could tell that the shadow belonged to an elf, and not to a spider or other fell beasts, because of its swiftness and stealth. Thorin came at last to a clearing, where he stopped dead, breathing hard. He then stooped down and picked up a sizable branch.

And held his breath in silence.

In front of him was another giant spider, bigger than any that he had ever laid eyes on. Its eyes were intensely fixed on him, its jaws snapping in hunger, frothing. He doubted he’d make much of an opponent, as he only had a branch to defend himself, all his other sharp objects being confiscated at their capture. Still, he found the prospect of dying at the claws of a spider far more favorable than at the hands of any elf. A claw was raised, foreshadowing a deadly blow. Thorin, knowing if hit he would be instantly killed, raised his poor excuse of a weapon high.

_Twang._

A lone arrow whizzed by Thorin’s ear and embedded itself in a chink between the crusts that covered one of the spider’s front legs and body. The black beast shrieked and maddeningly waved its claws in the air out of pain. One of the claws whipped the branch out of Thorin’s grip, leaving him defenseless. Suddenly, a figure dropped on top of the swaying spider, a bow in hands. Thorin almost couldn’t catch the blurred figure, but the flash of gold in the twilight was the tell-tale sign of who his self-imposed rescuer was. The elven prince knocked arrows after arrows, repeatedly shooting the spider from above. Thorin had no concern over the safety of one who put himself in danger to protect him; instead he saw it a precious opportunity of escape.

Just as he was about to turn and run, an arrow shot through the air and pinned his heavy tunic to the trunk of the tree behind him. He swore, trying in vain to free himself.

A shriek from the spider, followed by a surprised grasp. Thorin looked up and saw one of the sharp claws catch the elf at the left shoulder, tearing through the leaf-like armor. The pain must have jolted his arm, for the bow flew from his hand and hit the ground. Without a pause — and if he was in pain, his face betrayed nothing — the elven prince threw the arrow he still held in his right hand away and reached for the sword …Thorin’s sword.

He brandished Orcrist against the spider, which did not seem to weaken, despite several arrows piercing its body. Thorin, struggling to break free, observed the fight without pausing. Although the prince wielded the blade with mastery, to Thorin’s scrutinizing eyes, his flawed swordsmanship was revealed. His stance was right, and his grace resembled that of a dance as he fought off the spider, but his blows lacked strength, and his maneuver trust. This was no sword master in front of Thorin, but an actor who knew how to put up a show. The anger that Thorin had forgotten came back at once. He would claim his sword back at any cost. There was no way he was going to let this elfling who did know not what he was doing play with it any longer. Straightening himself, Thorin began to unbuckle his belt to shed his tunic that was stuck to the tree.

There was a pitched shriek and the heavy mass that had been a spider slumped down at Thorin’s feet, dead. A gleaming blade was stuck in its eyes that was becoming progressively dull as life leaked out of its body. The hilt was turned straight towards Thorin.

‘Stop.’

A sharp command, and the breathless elf emerged from behind the spider’s corpse. His dark tunic was stained darker. Without delay, Thorin pulled the blade out with a sickening sound of flesh being torn. ‘It is mine,’ Thorin declared, pointing Orcrist at the elf, whose lips was drawn thin, his face showing anger. Thorin couldn’t help but sneer at him, ‘and it is no toy to play with, elfling.’

Quickly assessing what he was up against, the elf reached behind him and pulled out two white-handled knives that he carried. He did not seem surprised that someone whose life he had just saved was now turning against him — or if he did, he let nothing show. ‘I have never lost to a dwarf,’ He stated flatly, his expression grim, blades poised. ‘Because ones who had the chance to face me were wise enough to run while they could.’

That did not defer Thorin, but provoked him. Without further ado, Thorin charged, slashing his sword and scoffing, ‘Hah!’ He had heard of the prince’s renown as a deadly warrior, but Thorin Oakenshield would not be easily discouraged by mere reputation, be it orcs or elves. When it came to strength, any dwarvish confidence to out-perform elves was automatically justified. Witnessing the elf handling the sword also added to it.

Thorin put all of his weight into each blows, and his opponent was driven back, twin knives crossed to block them. Thorin’s confidence was justified, as his blows were heavier, delivered with pure brute force of long-held antagonism towards his father and his kind. Noticing that the elf was favoring his left arm where the spider had stuck, Thorin took care to constantly aim there. Realizing the turn of the fight, the elf then increased his speed, and stuck one knife at Thorin’s thigh. Thorin brushed it off with ease, but the elf had expected this, and the following blows came instantly in arcs of silver. Thorin broke into a sweat to dodge them all. Although in force he was advantageous, in speed he was no match. Elves were blessed with superior strength and speed compared with the mortals; dwarves only had the former.

Sword clashed with knives one more time. The elf’s arms were trembling from the strain. Thorin pushed the blade down further, meaning to get past the weak barrier and let it taste the blood from the previously injured shoulder.

Suddenly, an uncalled-for memory flashed in Thorin’s mind: the elf coming to his rescue. He sported the injury to the shoulder defending Thorin from the spider. The dwarf could even see dark blood presently seeping from the wound and dripping down his arm as he tried to counter Thorin’s heavy blow. Thorin berated himself for this unexpected softness. No elves were worthy of his gratitude, much less one from the line of the Elvenking…

But before Thorin could put more strength and pushed down further, the twin blades disappeared, and Orcrist dug into the elven flesh, deep into the already crushed armor. The elf grunted in pain, his left arm falling useless by his side, and at the same instant, brought the knife in his right hand to Thorin’s throat. Their fight was thus concluded.

Thorin, surprised, made to remove his blade, for it was obvious that he had lost, and there was no cause to continue this fight. But the elf ground out, breathless. ‘Don’t.’

‘What,’ Thorin stilled, uncomprehending, and hissed with anger and shame, ‘You are the one who has the knife at my throat.’

Ignoring the blood that was dripping to the forest floor, the elf said, ‘I won’t risk you escaping. You are my father’s prisoner.’ His face was pale, his eye determined. He spoke with intensity, holding the dwarf captive with his body.

Thorin was stuck dumb. That the prince would go as far as to give himself up to the blade was the last thing on Thorin’s mind. However, the elf had also made clear his intention: he had saved Thorin from the spider so that Thranduil could get his hands on Thorin afterwards, and the flame of wrath was rekindled. Despite everything, the uncalled-for image appeared in Thorin’s mind for the second time in so short a period: this time was of his two nephews. Fill and Kili, always eager to please Thorin, their only lord, and determined in a hard-headed way: they made true heirs of a king. He was surprised to find himself comparing the prince to his sister’s sons.

He could detect movements from above his head. It appeared that the guards had arrived to assist their prince. Proud and defiant as he was, Thorin knew when a fight was over.

As a last satisfaction, for he doubted he would be having any soon in the Elvenking’s dungeons, Thorin harshly yanked Orcrist out and tossed it to the ground. The elf hissed in pain and bit his lips, much to Thorin’s expectation and triumph, but the knife that pointed at his throat did not weaver. With hatred and malice, Thorin watched as blood splattered the elf’s face, and the agony that crept to it.

The prince, becoming increasingly pale as precious blood dripped down his arm, waited until Thorin was secure in the grip of two of his guards before withdrawing the knife and bending down to pick up the other. He sheathed the pair to his back, cradling his bleeding arm. A warrior came to him with a concerned expression, but he waved him off, refusing help. Picking up Orcrist with his good arm, the elf quietly wiped the blade that was marred by his on blood on the grass. Noticing Thorin’s sharp gaze, the elf tugged it back to his slender waist with much less grace. He addressed Thorin with a drawn but triumphant smirk. ‘Now I own this sword by right, though it makes no sense to win a loot from a thief.’

With that, he turned and made his way back to the site where they had left the company of dwarves, holding his injured arm. He staggered, but for some reasons pretended that his health was perfect to his concerned warriors. Thorin let his eyes wander after the golden glint in the dim light as he was not so gently dragged along by the guards, who had apparently witnessed what Thorin did to their lord. He was overwhelmed by vengeance and his pride hurt. But he inwardly admitted that the elf did indeed win Orcrist from him; it was no longer a trophy but a prize from a fair fight, though the elf himself claimed otherwise.

Thorin reflected that the elf was not altogether typical of his kind, and certainly not what he would have expected from the line of Thranduil. Had he said it aloud, his fellow dwarves would have thought that he had just paid his highest compliment to an elf. But then he felt his anger welling up again.


End file.
